


Game Theory

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Fluff and Angst, Insecurity, M/M, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 08:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8882833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: Unbeta'ed. I really hope you enjoy this even though it got away from your prompt a bit.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [recrudescence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/gifts).



Arthur sighs when he hears Curt’s swearing erupt from the living room. He stays still a moment, a little reluctant to go in there and see what’s wrong: he _hates_ rows with Curt, mainly because Curt will always win, no matter what Arthur says or how righteous his anger is.

This time, though, he doesn’t think it’s anything serious. He hopes not, anyway. Curt’s ranting is vague, decontextualized. Arthur thinks it might have something to do with the game he’d left Curt playing on his Atari, since it’s usually the person or thing closest to Curt that triggers his anger. Then again, he’d been furious at Arthur last week when he knocked Arthur’s forgotten mug of tea off the edge of the counter, which was admittedly a shitty place to forget it, and admittedly not the first time Arthur had left a full mug of tea or coffee unattended somewhere precarious. For a few minutes, Arthur had feared it was over between them.

“I’m sorry,” he’d said, swallowing his own hurt at Curt’s reaction. _Fucking musician temperament._ “I’ll clean it up. It was out there so long it couldn’t have been hot…”

Curt had stormed out of the kitchen with the caged animal sullenness that was more attractive on stage than in their private life together. Arthur had wondered at the time if he and Curt were doomed to fail. Curt was, well, _Curt_ , and Arthur was too meek for his own good with most people, let alone with Curt. If he’d interviewed Curt for an hour for his job, like he’d tried to all those months ago, he wouldn’t have been able to do a proper job of it and ask the thoughtful, critical questions a journalist should: too much of him was still the awed teenage fan boy. How the hell were they supposed to have a healthy relationship on that basis?

But the tea incident (Tea-gate, as Arthur nicknamed it in his head) had worked out well enough. About twenty minutes and half a roll of paper towels after the row, Curt had checked in on Arthur again. Arthur was cool toward him until Curt murmured an apology, which ended with a self-deprecating laugh.

“I didn’t want - _this_ \- to end over spilled tea,” Arthur had replied, a little fussily. He’d wondered if he had sounded too nagging or too - something. Even when Curt was trying to put things right, it was hard for Arthur not to brood on everything that was wrong with their relationship, or with Arthur himself.

“It wouldn’t,” Curt promised him. “ _I_ wouldn’t. I’m - Don’t worry about it.” And he had placated Arthur with a kiss, which had, of course, led to fantastic makeup sex against the kitchen counter.

Now, Arthur leans back in his chair and puts away the story he was working on to wait for a check in Curt’s raging before getting up and heading into the living room.

“You all right?” he asks, looking Curt over. Curt is on the edge of his seat, furiously smoking a cigarette and glaring down at his Atari.

“Yeah,” he replies. “I’m fine.”

Arthur draws closer to sit beside him.

“Do you mind?” he asks.

Curt shakes his head.

“Well, what happened?” Arthur continues, taking his place beside Curt. He doesn’t want to press too hard. Pushing Curt only makes him more reluctant to talk, and Arthur is too good at prying information out of difficult sources to make a rookie mistake like that with anyone he cares about as much as Curt. Arthur also knows that there’s normally something behind Curt’s outbursts, like Tea-gate. Curt had admitted two days later that he’d had a doctor’s appointment that morning, which was enough said. Between the shock treatment when he was a kid and his years of living on the edge as an adult, Curt is terrified of everything medical - not that he likes to talk about it.

But Arthur’s more and more sure that he was right, that nothing’s  _really_ the matter this time. He watches the tight line of Curt’s mouth relax, even curl into the ghost of a smile, and lets out a breath.

“You didn’t have to come in,” Curt says.

Arthur bites back a smile of his own. Even after months of being together - and being quite  _happy_ , despite everything - he doesn’t want to provoke Curt by starting the teasing, about his games or anything else. The slammed doors and shattered ashtrays have taught him to be careful.

“Just wanted to see what’s going on,” he says, keeping his voice neutral.

“No need,” Curt replies. He bites his lip for a moment, then shakes his head and grins at Arthur. His smile brightens his whole face. Arthur relaxes at last. Suddenly he’s sure that everything is worth it: the missteps and codependence and all the other nonsense that he worries about can’t outweigh the warmth in Curt’s smile or the joy of being with him like this. _But then, that’s just the sort of thing people say when they’re in a relationship that’s all wrong for them..._

“I just died in the game, again. It’s been pissing me off.”

Arthur puts a hand on Curt’s arm. Curt’s skin is warm to his touch, and as he leans back in his seat he feels his stomach jump from desire or pleasure or good old-fashioned butterflies. It’s enough to silence that cynical voice in his brain, at least for now.

“I’m sure you’ll work it out soon,” Arthur says. He hopes he sounds reassuring, though he can’t imagine why anyone would get so broken up over a little dot or square falling off some lines to its death. He doesn’t even know anyone else who still has a machine like that, and suspects the whole fad will blow over soon. Curt must be a stubborn outlier. _Not surprising._

“Thanks,” Curt says. He drops the controller from the Atari onto the coffee table, careless of the papers fluttering and threatening to fly off and the rattling of empty mugs and wine glasses and one empty cardboard pizza box. _We’d better clean those up,_  Arthur thinks. _Or rather,_ I’d _better clean them up._ A few weeks earlier, Curt had suggested that they hire a cleaning lady, who, he insisted, couldn’t cost more per year than a tiny fraction of his royalties. Arthur had been less sure about the money and about trusting the flat to a stranger, which may have been a terrible mistake. He should jump at the offer next time Curt brings it up.

“Anyway, I know what you must be thinking,” Curt adds.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah - you’re not as poker-faced as you think you are, and you must be thinking that I’m crazy to get so into a game.”

“Only a little,” Arthur admits. “I like seeing you when you’re happy, and they  _usually_ make you happy.”

“And it’s a lot better than what I could be doing,” Curt points out with a shrug.

 _That, too,_ Arthur thinks. He wonders how, or if, he should reply: he’s especially careful about alluding to Curt’s history of drug abuse, except when Curt himself brings it up. It’s too painful for him, and the last thing Arthur wants to do is cause Curt pain. Besides, it’s painful for Arthur to hear, too. He’s grateful every single day that Curt has gotten his act together as much as he has.

“Anyway, it’s like it’s telling a story,” Curt says, bringing Arthur back to the present and the Atari, and offering Arthur a way out. “You just don’t get it.”

“I don’t, but I’ll take your word for it,” Arthur says. A ‘story’ is a bit far, even for him. Obviously it’s good for Curt to have something that's healthy and not addictive to burn some of his time and some of his wonderful, terrible, impossible intensity, but Arthur doesn’t know what ‘story’ he sees in kids' games - or, come to think of it, how he can stand the tinny, childish, yet shockingly catchy theme tunes.

“It’s the way of the future,” Curt insists. They’ve had this conversation before, or most of it. Arthur rolls his eyes in answer.

“You want to bet against it?” Curt teases. “‘Cause I’d take that bet.”

“That would mean staying together into ‘the future’, though,” Arthur says. “To know who wins.”

That’s a new direction. Arthur realizes as soon as the words are out that he shouldn’t have said them, shouldn’t have strayed so far from anything familiar or safe. He bites his lip and watches Curt’s reaction, the way his brows knit together in a frown before he replies.

“You know, you don’t have to be so pessimistic,” he says at last. Then he takes Arthur’s hand and strokes it. Arthur exhales in relief, though he’s a little lost for words. Suddenly Curt is staring at him with that look of quiet longing in his eyes, as if he needs Arthur - as if Arthur’s the only person in the world who matters, just him. Between the tone of Curt’s voice and the expression on his face, he could almost have said _I love you._ But he wouldn’t, would he? Arthur looks down. He never quite knows where he stands with Curt, or which of them is to blame for that constant confusion, because as volatile is Curt is, it might be Arthur’s fault for being too insecure to imagine a future with anyone at all, never mind Curt Wild.

“I’m not,” Arthur lies. He wonders how on earth Curt has ended up the bigger optimist, of the two of them.

“Oh, come on, Arthur,” Curt mutters, before gripping Arthur’s wrist with that strong, insistent touch that makes Arthur’s knees weak and his cock hard. “You’re a shit liar.”

Arthur shrugs and smiles in answer. He would love to be with Curt for as far into the future as Curt will have him, which is the problem: that can’t be very long, can it? Not when Curt could do so much better. But he doesn’t want to get into that. Today’s been going too _well_ for him to get into that, so he pulls Curt closer and kisses him and lets Curt press him against the sofa as he kisses back hard.

“I am,” Arthur says, when he breaks the kiss to breathe. “I admit it. But never mind.”

“Good,” Curt says. His smile is back on his face as he starts unbuttoning Arthur’s shirt. Arthur’s fingers touch his as he reaches down to help Curt get his shirt off. His face warms, and he hears Curt laugh softly, close to his ear, as he stretches out half on top of Arthur, although they barely fit on the small couch. It doesn’t matter. Arthur kisses Curt again and forces himself to stop _worrying_ and being ridiculous, and to just live in the moment and enjoy things for a change.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'ed. I really hope you enjoy this even though it got away from your prompt a bit.


End file.
